


At the end of the day, some things can't be faked

by relenafanel



Series: Let's go steal a... [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Leverage Fusion, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Art, Auctions, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hydra (Marvel), Leviathan (Marvel), M/M, On the Run, cons and manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4500366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relenafanel/pseuds/relenafanel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is a thief; he has very little concern about whether he's a good person who does bad things, or if he's a bad person who occasionally does good things. </p><p>So kissing the attractive man at the bar just to steal his wallet doesn't register beyond the necessity of it.</p><p>~</p><p>The start of the Leverage AU <em>EVERYONE</em> asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the end of the day, some things can't be faked

**Author's Note:**

> I s2g this started as either a prompt or a conversation I had, but I can't remember where it originally came from.
> 
> So... I feel like I owe someone an apology.

Bucky doesn't have a lot of morals.  He lives his life in shades of grey, and he has trouble defining why there is so much concern with black and white.  The ends of the spectrum aren't defined in good and evil to him, and he doesn't think he needs a label.  Bucky is a thief, and he has very little concern about whether he's a good person who does bad things, or if he's a bad person who occasionally does good things.  The world isn't black and white, despite what some people think, and Bucky's always been comfortable somewhere in the middle.  He doesn't sleep poorly at night because of the decisions he makes, but he has a line.

 

He has a line and he won't cross it, especially not for money.  Money is easy enough to get, and it's easy enough to lose.  He lives his life in the pursuit of it, in the fun of it, but he refuses to be controlled by it.

 

When he takes a job funded by human trafficking blood money, turning in Leviathan isn't even a question of conscience.  He doesn't think of his actions in terms of 'can I live with myself if I take this job?' because there are a lot of things he can live with.  He does it because it's the right thing to do.

 

Bucky is a fool.

 

It's not the first time in his career that he's acted impulsively, where even weighing the consequences doesn't prepare him for the reality of them.   
  
It might be his last.

 

Leviathan has a far reach, and Bucky is just one person.

 

x.x.x.x.

 

He's sitting in the auction room when his burner phone lights up, the only signal of an incoming text that he allows.  He subtly looks at the screen, and then looks away with even more deliberation, forcing his face to maintain an expression of semi-interest in the proceedings as the auctioneer continues to speak about the current piece in front of them.  Bucky plays it off like he's receiving orders from a buyer, like half of the other people in the room are. 

 

Technically, he is.

 

_Deal off. Don't contact us again._

 

There's no doubt in Bucky's mind that if the people in the business who are the least adverse to taking risks are cutting him loose that he's been so badly burned that no one will work with him.  He was already out of options before the text, this job sitting as an uncomfortable hazard and a necessary evil.  It isn’t the work itself that has Bucky concerned, but the people he’s working for. _Was_ working for.  He considers them the McDonalds of thieves, a good starting job, but the place you joke about ending up if you misstep after leaving it.  Pride shouldn't factor into his decisions, not now that he’s half a step in front of half a dozen governmental agencies breathing down his neck.

 

And fumbling.

 

Pride shouldn't factor into it, but it does.  He should be better than this; he was better than this a few months ago.  It's frustrating, and he doesn't have the time or the luxury to think about it now. 

 

He was fired by the people who will give jobs to almost anyone.

  
He gets up, tucking his phone into his breast pocket as he wanders back to the bar.  His body language is casual; what isn't casual is the effort it takes to move like he doesn't have a care in the world.  He almost needs to clear his brain with the iron-clad willpower that brought him from being a kid growing up in the poor part of Brooklyn to where he is now. 

 

There’s an anecdote he likes to remind himself of, a smug tale of perseverance that he’s told more than one person like his story is different from everyone else’s in this line of work. As a child there had been a townhouse in the middle of their neighborhood that maintained most of the glory of an older, bygone era Brooklyn.  Everyone knew who owned it, and Bucky used to stare at the outside facade and yearn.  He was smarter than most kids his age -  he knew he wouldn't get that house through working for the owner.  He had to be better.

 

Bucky bought the house before he turned twenty.  He sold it for a profit a few years later when his old neighborhood turned to gentrification.  Possessing it had been exerting a power he no longer cared about, but it had been a good life lesson for him.  Most people think the lesson is _there is nothing you can't do if you put your mind to it_ , but it’s not.  The lesson is this:

 _Be smart. Be better. Remember to reassess._ There are times when it's ok to hold on to something for personal reasons, but those reasons can change as easily as the tide, and so must his mind.

 

So when Bucky loses the contract, he uses the time it takes walking to the bar to consider why he's at the auction, and if it's worth continuing.

 

Bucky has the contacts to get rid of almost every piece of art in the auction, but without a buyer, grabbing the Warhol isn't worth his time.  He's out the cost of his plane ticket and the price of his hotel room, and it grates him that he's in the position to actually be concerned about the loss of revenue.  He needs something that can be quickly liquidated or he needs to cut his losses and try something else.  Bucky's been losing money for too long, and he considers this carefully.

 

Money is easy enough to get.

 

He needs to remind himself that he's been in situations before where his wallet was coming up empty.  There are ways to pad it that have nothing to do with obtaining auctioned art, and that is through people, not things.  He has a few options open to him if he's willing to try them.  The most difficult is gauging whether anyone in the room could be receptive to hiring him for a quick and dirty job for something they don't want to go through the official channels for, someone who recently lost a bid for something they wanted, for instance.  The easiest... well, the easiest is staring him in the face.

 

A man wearing a blue pinstripe suit opens his wallet to pay for his drink, unwittingly showing Bucky a fistful of hundred.

 

On his original canvass of the room, Bucky had placed the man as someone new to the auction world, uneasy in his role as buyer.  He's seen it before: people who just want to get in and get out with one piece, with no interest in learning the rules of auctions beyond what they need to make the purchase. They don’t even know enough to consider hiring a professional to do this part for them.

 

There had been nothing about him that had held Bucky’s attention for longer than his initial assessment except for a small realization that the pinstripe suit fit very well.  A broad pair of shoulders isn’t enough to turn his head when he’s doing a job.  He’s a goddamn professional.

 

The hundreds of dollars in the man’s wallet are what holds Bucky’s attention now. 

 

They could help.  A lot.

 

It makes him want to laugh, a bitter and sharp response to the position he finds himself in.

 

Bucky hasn't considered picking someone's pocket for almost a decade, at least not with so much on the line.  He does it sometimes for fun, to pay for a meal or to check someone's identification the easy way.  It keeps his fingers sharp.  Last year in Madrid he funded his entire vacation off unwary tourists and a slight hand at an underground craps table, just because he could.  It had added a thrill to the vacation that his downtime rarely gave him.  It reminded him that there was a sense of fun, of joy, in what he did.  
  
There's a difference between grifting with a safety net of millions in an accessible bank account and doing it out of necessity.

 

Bucky’s rusty at necessity.

 

x.x.x.x.x.

 

It seems impossible to him that a government agency could freeze all of his accounts.  Bucky has been extremely careful for years.  Careful in a way that isn’t complacent, updating and upgrading his procedures as the world of technology improves.  He learns and adapts, and he considers that part of the fun.

 

They almost had him in Stuttgart when he tried to tap into his emergency, emergency, emergency account and he almost didn't notice.  He thought it was paranoid to watch the street below his window overnight.  Once, Bucky would have said his entire life was spent looking over his shoulder, but having a low-grade awareness that he could be caught has nothing on actively being pursued by people who actually have a bead on who he is and where he is.

 

Digitally, he's fucked.  He needs time to sort everything out, and time is a luxury he doesn't have.  Millions.  There are millions of dollars in various accounts that he has to force himself to consider gone.

 

The only things he has left are the physical caches, and Bucky is terrified to try to access any of them.  It screams trap, and he's been narrowed down to acting in desperation by his lack of options.  He can either take a chance that the bag of diamonds he has stashed in a safety deposit box in Texas isn't being watched,

**_or_ **

he can disappear.  Start over.  He can let go of everything, all the accumulated wealth and hard work he's put into making sure he was never desperate again, and disappear.

 

He's terrified by what he doesn't know, almost frozen with it.

 

 _Be smart_ , his brain reminds him.  _Reassess._

 

x.x.x.x.x.

 

He takes in his target in the pinstripe suit with a careful attention to detail, noting the specifics in the few seconds it takes for his eyes to naturally sweep across that broad chest.  He meets the man's eyes for a brief moment, and he allows his to crinkle at the corners in amusement and a friendly greeting before continuing to glance away.  It's a rookie mistake to look at someone for more or less time than he would naturally, and he sips at his champagne with deliberation and a bored expression as he shifts his weight just enough to draw attention to the cut of his hips. He's leaning back against the bar, casual and completely at ease in a pose meant to have interested eyes lingering on him.  He looks down at the program in his hand, pursing his lips as he reads over the schedule of events that should be currently happening on the raised platform in front of him.  He can tell the man is hooked from the corner of his eye, the kind of hooked that has nothing to do with professional interest. He looks at his watch, furrowing his eyebrows as though he's concerned that the piece he's interested in hasn't appeared yet.  

 

Bucky uses his agitation to finish his drink and turn back towards the bar, placing the empty flute aside as he reaches for a second one that he has no intention of drinking.

 

When he looks at his target again, up through his eyelashes like he might be interested, the man is looking back at him.  Bucky raises an eyebrow and leans against the bar, his elbows sharp points on the wood.  He can barely see the target from the angle he's at, and it's a calculated risk to see if he's gained enough attention to bring the man to him.

 

His fingers are just closing around his fresh drink when he feels a person slide in beside him, the soft cloth of his expensive suit covering a firm body, and immediately Bucky knows how he's going to play this.

 

He allows himself to look, to really look.

 

It’s almost a shame to rob someone as gorgeous as the man beside him, but the mark is also stupid enough to put himself in a position where he can be robbed, so Bucky doesn’t feel much sympathy for him.

 

"Hi," he says with charm after he’s taken his time to do an appraisal, softening his voice to a murmur.  "I'm here for something old and expensive, but I wouldn't be opposed to going home with you instead."

 

The man opens his mouth, a small furrow appearing between his eyebrows.  "Are you calling me young and cheap?" he responds in a tone that is far too teasing and knowing for someone Bucky has only just met.

 

He’s taken back for a moment, slightly impressed.

 

Bucky shrugs a shoulder, allowing his mouth to curve up in a wry smile.  As far as lines go, Bucky considers the one he used to be a smooth one.  It had been smooth until the point where it turned out he’s talking with someone who is actually listening.  _Game on_.  "That hadn't been my intention, but I see the error in my ways now," he answers, leaning closer like he’s about to divulge a secret, a teasing half-smile on his lips.  "Never imply that someone is the opposite of old and expensive.  I'm sure your age is irrelevant and you're priceless in ways I hope you'll allow me to discover."

 

The man stares at him, eyebrows raised to his hairline.  He gapes for a second, a flush spreading up the side of his neck.  Bucky knows how to look for signs of fluster, and hides his smugness behind a hopeful tilt of his champagne glass.  "Wow," the man finally articulates.  "I'm tempted to say yes to that."

 

"Is there a reason not to?" Bucky questions, grinning in a way that is supposed to be confident without being overpowering, questioning but with a hint of concern, and overall a smile that comes off as charming and poised without being pushy.  Bucky has a lot of smiles.  Some of them he’s spent a lot of time developing in front of a mirror.

 

Pinstripe shrugs, a little hopelessly lost by the conversation, and Bucky knows he was the right person to pick as a mark.  “This doesn’t really seem the time or place to…”

 

“I’m not really sure what you think is about to happen,” Bucky teases, leaning into the man’s space slightly.  “But you might not be wrong to think it.  I’m interested, very interested.”  His touch on the man’s chest is light as he very carefully presses his mouth against the man’s lips.  It’s a tease and a promise of a kiss, brushing and soft, and almost chaste in a way that’s a precursor to more.  “I’m staying at the Marriot a few blocks over, room 1406.  Maybe we can get supper at the bar and consider what a good time and place might be?”

 

The man blinks as Bucky withdraws his hand.  He looks surprised, mouth open as a line appears between his eyebrows.  His hand reaches out and grabs Bucky’s arm, and for a moment he thinks he’s caught, alarm spiking through his brain.  Then the man is kissing him again.  It’s quick, but more than Bucky had given him, a bit more pressure, slightly longer in a way that appeals to Bucky on a personal level.

 

Wetter.  A return of interest.

 

“I’d like that,” the man answers him with a self-effacing grin.  “I’ll be there.  7-ish, maybe?”

 

Bucky nods.  His smile is flirtatious.  “I’ll see you then,” he answers, and doesn’t feel too bad when he walks away, ensuring that Pinstripe’s eyes don’t stray from his ass long enough to realize his wallet is missing.

 

.x.x.x.x.

 

Bucky opens the wallet when he gets back to his hotel room, pleased enough with the fact his skills were still up to par that he doesn’t consider that he wasn’t the only player in the game until he’s staring down at the contents.  There's a folded piece of paper tucked in with all of the bills.  _Bucky -_ it says, and Bucky breathes sharply through his nose, the note crumpling in his hand. 

 

They’ve found him.  He drops the letter and grabs his full duffle bag, shoving the cheap netbook he’d purchased to replace his state of the art equipment on top of the clothing he keeps packed these days.  There’s a desperation to his movements that’s reminiscent of prey, trapped and panicking, and he can’t think clearly.

 

Be smart about this, his brain tries to remind him as he takes a precious few seconds to breathe. 

 

 _Bucky_ – the letter said.

 

It's his name, the one he takes extreme care to not give anyone unless he trusts them, that makes him pick up the letter with shaky fingers and continue reading instead of dropping the wallet and leaving town as fast as possible.

 

_When you're ready to stop running, come find us.  We can offer protection against Leviathan and the government._

 

There’s a phone number scrawled along the bottom.

 

Bucky has been played.

 

.x.x.x.

 

He calls the number four days later. The voice on the other end of the line tells him to stay put, that they’ll find him, and he’s tempted to run despite the fact that he’s been shot and is out of options.

 

There’s a knock on his door an hour after he places the call.  Bucky is crouched beside the window of the empty condo he’s squatting in, watching the front entrance.  As far as he knows, a team hasn’t come through the lobby.  There are multiple points of egress he can’t monitor all at once, and he’s not confident that he’s not about to be killed.  He stands, his knees creaking for a moment as they adjust to standing, and he carefully and quietly limps to the door, peeking out through the peephole.  There’s a solitary man standing in the hallway, face tilted away from him.

 

It’s probably a terrible idea to open the door, but Bucky has been shot, clipped really, and he physically can’t keep running, especially with the blood that keeps welling around the haphazard stitches he threw in his own leg. 

 

And he just can’t do this anymore.  Before all this, if someone had asked him how long he’d last on the run, he would have thought far longer than this.  Everyone likes to think they’re smarter than their pursuers, and maybe if there was only one person chasing him, Bucky would be, but he can’t stay ahead of full organizations with a vendetta. 

 

But he’s tired, worn down, and smart enough to realize he can’t do this on his own.

 

He opens the door.

 

“So is now a good time and place?” Pinstripe asks, wearing jeans and a button up shirt this time, lifting his eyes to stare challengingly at Bucky before crowding him back through the door and closing it behind him. 

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://relenafanel.tumblr.com/). come keep track of the status on all my WIP with me.
> 
> I'm hoping this becomes a series. For now, have this part of it.
> 
>  
> 
> [read the start of this from Steve's POV](http://relenafanel.tumblr.com/post/125874492488/so-i-accidentally-wrote-this-for-brendaonao3-for)


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